


Lay Down (Your Burdens)

by Ginia



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM, Boot Worship, Forniphilia, M/M, Multi, PWP, Pre-Negotiated Kink, Trampling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginia/pseuds/Ginia
Summary: He drags his gaze down, admiring the formal Kingsglaive jacket hanging from broad shoulders, and the dark trousers that do nothing to mask exquisitely sculpted thighs. And then further, as Ignis’s eyes sweep lower, those damned boots.Whoever designed the Kingsglaive’s boots, they must have been a member of the scene. Because there is no practical reason for a soldier to have that many buckles and laces to worry about, and no need for that stiff, glossy leather to extend so far beyond a man’s knee. Those damned boots are like a bloody all-you-can-lick buffet to a sub.And Gods, Ignis is hungry tonight.





	Lay Down (Your Burdens)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xylianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylianna/gifts).



> This is what happens when I promise Xy a boot fic. 5000+ words of trashy boot trash. No plot, no character development, just lots of dirtybadwrong.
> 
> Please note that all parties involved are adults (Ignis is 21) in open, consenting relationships. All kinks are pre-negotiated and consent is very much assured.

The apartment door swings open after a series of measured knocks, revealing Nyx Ulric in all of his ridiculously handsome glory.

Ignis’s gaze is immediately drawn to and held thrall by those cerulean eyes sparking with mischief and merriment. Nyx flashes him a smile, deliberately lopsided to emphasize the dimples in his right cheek. It’s a calculated move on the Glaive’s part and Ignis is well aware, but the effect of that rakish grin isn’t lessened for it.

“Evenin’, beautiful.” Nyx cocks his head, braids swishing, wordlessly inviting Ignis inside.

“Thank you,” Ignis replies politely.

He steps into the modest apartment and toes his shoes off, stooping so that he can arrange them neatly by the door, toes pointing to the wall and perfectly parallel to each other. Polite. Proper. Efficient. Tidy.  The embodiment of everything that Ignis is, made manifest on Nyx Ulric’s mat.

By the end of the night, Astrals bless him, he hopes Nyx will strip him of all of that. And more.

It isn’t until now, as he straightens back up, that he takes in more of Nyx than just his distractingly attractive face. Ignis can feel his pulse quicken, the blood heating in his veins at the sight of the man.

He drags his gaze down, admiring the formal Kingsglaive jacket hanging from broad shoulders, and the dark trousers that do nothing to mask exquisitely sculpted thighs. And then further, as Ignis’s eyes sweep lower, those damned boots.

Whoever designed the Kingsglaive’s boots, they must have been a member of the scene. Because there is no practical reason for a soldier to have that many buckles and laces to worry about, and no need for that stiff, glossy leather to extend so far beyond a man’s knee. Those damned boots are like a bloody all-you-can-lick buffet to a sub.

And Gods, Ignis is hungry tonight.

“Like what you see?” Ignis can hear the smirk in Nyx’s voice, even if he’s too distracted by miles of leather and metal snaps to see it for himself.

“Indeed,” he agrees, because there's little use denying it now. He’s spent the last twenty seconds practically eye-fucking the man’s footwear.

“Feeling’s pretty mutual, beautiful boy.” Nyx makes a satisfied hum in the back of his throat, as if truly enjoying the sight of Ignis thirsting for him in his entryway, Heat crests the sharp peaks of Ignis’s cheekbones.

Ignis knows precisely what Nyx sees when he looks at him, and it’s not a beautiful boy. It’s been a long day, his dress shirt is wrinkled beneath his suit jacket, his meticulously styled hair is wilting and sagging at the edges, and dark smudges stain the skin beneath his eyes, loudly proclaiming to the world that he’s exhausted. He looks an absolute mess, and beneath the crumbling facade he’s an even bigger mess on the inside. He’s a jangling ball of stress and nerves, and he might just break into pieces if he’s asked to bear any more budens tonight. One more favour, one more item on his to-do list will do him in.

A cool, soothing voice in the back of his mind reassures him that it’s alright, Nyx knows. That’s why Ignis is here, and that’s why the other man is decked out in his full uniform, right down to those maddeningly enticing boots.

Nyx beckons him deeper into the apartment, long fingers curling and uncurling in wordless command. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Ignis follows and obeys. They’ve done this before.

There’s no preamble tonight, no idle chit chat about their respective days, no commentary on the weather or polite questions about what books the other has read recently.  Ignis is fit to bursting with stress, and Nyx is a kind enough Master to not delay Ignis’s salvation further.

“I’ll take that,” Nyx murmurs once they’re standing in the middle of his cramped sitting room. Ignis remains still and docile as practiced hands ease the suit jacket from his shoulders. _Yes_ , he thinks. _Just like that. Strip me bare until I’m not even myself anymore, until I can’t think anymore.  Debase me, use me, please._

With a whoosh and a thump, Nyx tosses Ignis’s jacket into a corner, where it crumples beside a bookcase. It’s careless and inconsiderate of him, adding more wrinkles and now dust to the expensive cloth. Ignis should chide him, should march over there to retrieve the garment while it might be salvageable, before he’s forced to dry clean it tomorrow.

Instead he allows a shudder to wrack his frame, loosening some of the tension he’s been carrying all day, and he thanks him. “Thank you, Master.”

“My pleasure, beautiful boy.” A thumb gently skims over the taut lines of Ignis’s shoulders and Nyx clucks his tongue at him. “You can kneel for me now.”

Ignis instantly folds, long legs curling beneath him. He’s still in his white button up and tailored dress pants, and already the dark material of his trousers feels tight where his cock is rousing.

“Shoulders back, chin up,” Nyx’s voice rumbles down at him like the roll of distant thunder.

It’s so easy and so soothing, like sinking into a hot bath at the end of the day, to let Nyx’s voice and his blessedly simple commands wash over him. It’s so easy to just obey, to put the reins in Nyx’s capable hands and allow the other man to lead him. Obediently he adjusts his posture to suit his Dom’s liking, chin up, shoulders back, just like he was told.

“Good boy,” Nyx praises. Ignis’s nerve endings tingle with pleasure.

Nyx slowly paces around him, heavy steps causing the floorboards beneath Ignis’s knees to vibrate. Ignis’s heart thrums to the beat.

Rough fingertips anoint him with gentle touches, carefully removing Ignis’s tie, his gloves, ruffling his hair, smoothing the linen of his shirt across his chest. Each touch is a reassurance and a promise, that Nyx is driving tonight, that he’ll take care of Ignis and see them both safely and happily to the end of the ride. And with each touch more and more of Ignis’s everyday worries and cares are brushed aside, leaving him relaxed and pliant at his Dom’s feet.

Speaking of …

A booted toe nudges into the center of Ignis’s chest, before the entire sole flattens against the crisp panel of his dress shirt. Gentle but insistent pressure is applied, and Ignis allows himself to be pushed back, nimbly bowing his back until he’s lying flat on Nyx’s floor.

“There you go,” Nyx croons down at him. “That’s where we belong, isn’t it?”

A thrill lances through Ignis, straight from his cock. “Yes, Master. Thank you-mmm!” He shudders as Nyx leans forward, easing more of his weight onto Ignis’s chest, so that he can feel the pattern of the boot tread through his shirt. Perhaps if he’s a very good boy, Nyx will send him home with the impressions of his boots in his flesh, something for Ignis to touch tomorrow and remember this by.

“Shh,” Nyx soothes him. His heel digs into Ignis’s pec, pivoting so that the sole brushes back and forth over Ignis’s nipple like a caress, forcing a gasp from the supine man. “Unless they need to use a safe word, doormats don’t need to talk do they?” That smirk is back, its playfulness belying how serious Nyx is about shutting Ignis’s brain down.

Ignis remains silent, simply bobbing his chin in a nod, because no, doormats do not need to speak. He lets out a deep breath and watches with mounting relief as his body delfates and relaxes beneath Nyx’s ministrations.

Like the treatment of his jacket, this should annoy Ignis. Nyx’s boots are fairly clean--knowing him he probably cleaned them before Ignis arrived, so that they wouldn’t be too terrible--but still, the way the rugged tread catches on the fine linen of his dress shirt wrinkles it and threatens to wear a hole through it, and he knows that smudges of dust and dirt are still transferring to his shirt no matter how considerate Nyx was in his preparations. He’ll have to get his shirt and jacket dry cleaned tomorrow. _One more thing to do..._

“Now, now,” Nyx chides him as he steps to the side and traces the tiers of Ignis’s ribs with his toe. “Doormats also don’t think or worry, either. They don’t have to do anything other than lie there all pretty, til their owner gets ‘em _dirty_.” He emphasizes the last with the scrape of hard leather against Ignis’s cock, sudden and hot, but gone too soon.

Ignis huffs but grows immediately still and quiet again. Darling Nyx, wonderful Master. He’d probably caught a glimmer of something in Ignis’s eyes and known that he’d been fretting over the laundry.

Nyx paces around Ignis, who lies still and quiet on the floor. Just as he had soothed him with his hands while Ignis knelt, now Nyx teases him with his feet. His heavy steps shake the floor, tinging the moment with the slightest edge of fear, enough to keep Ignis’s nerves humming with anticipation. Vulnerable as he is, it would be easy for Nyx to stamp down on him with all of the weight and force in his warrior’s body. Strong as Ignis is, he’s mortal flesh and blood and would break beneath those heavy boots.

Sometimes he thinks he might like that, that he wouldn’t mind being ground up under someone’s heel, so long as it was Nyx.

Right now, though, Ignis isn’t thinking about that. He isn’t thinking about much of anything.

Nyx drags the textured sole of his boot across Ignis’s chest and thighs, carefully avoiding the bulge in his pants after that one delirious taste of raw pleasure. He alternates light, teasing caresses with harsh pressure, Nyx shifting his weight on and off of him.

Nyx even, daringly, nudges his toe into Ignis’s fine-boned cheek. Obedient, pliant, malleable to his Master’s will, Ignis turns his head to the side and sighs in pleasure as leather and rubber whisper across the side of his face, barely avoiding his glasses.

Oh, if the Council could see him now, sprawled on the floor as a Glaive treats his aristocratic features to the sole of his boot, and the absolute scandal if they knew how much Ignis loves it. Loves the coarse feel of the rough tread on his skin and the seductive scent of leather and rubber flooding his senses.

He wants to whimper and cry when the boot is withdrawn from his face, but Nyx benevolently skims his boot over the expanse of Ignis’s chest, and Ignis remembers to be quiet.

“Such a good doormat for me,” Nyx says idly as he runs the sole of his left boot along Ignis’s thigh, stopping with his toes just shy of where Ignis’s cock is rousing and beginning to tent his trousers. “It’s nice having something pretty to wipe my feet on at the end of a long day.” Nyx’s right boot lifts from the floor, and for a thrilling moment all of his Master’s weight is bearing down on Ignis’s thigh, deliciously close to his cock again. A moment later the pressure eases somewhat as the right foot comes down across Ignis’s taut abdomen, the weight dispersed to be more bearable.

Nyx’s left foot rises, and Ignis watches, mesmerized, as it comes down across his chest a few inches away from its mate so that his Master is standing with both feet firmly planted on his torso, his boots sinking slightly into yielding flesh. From this angle Nyx looks like he’s a hundred feet tall. Ignis is eye level with the straps covering the tops of Nyx’s feet. It makes him feel so small, so insignificant.

It’s so damned freeing.

Ignis watches from his thrillingly _low_ position, half in a daze, as Nyx carefully walks back and forth across his chest and thighs. His steps are measured and deliberately placed so that he doesn’t seriously hurt Ignis, and soon there’s a familiar rhythm of pleasure and pain sparking through his body as his Master’s weight bears down on him and then eases, a heavily booted foot lifting to inflict delicious torment on another piece of Ignis, another patch of his obedient doormat.

As Ignis sinks deeper and deeper into the blissful part of his mind that relishes debasement and domination, he quickly loses all track of time. He doesn’t know how many delicious minutes it’s been that Nyx has been caressing and then trampling on him. All he knows is that Nyx does eventually declare his boots to be as clean as they’ll get, and he steps off of his submissive, who can finally breathe deeply again without the restriction of crushing weight pressing him into the floor.

He remains exactly as he is, sprawled at Master’s feet, because he hasn’t been given a command yet, and right now he is just a doormat. Doormats don’t think, don’t plan, aren’t responsible for anticipating and acting. No, he is allowed to lie there, savouring the echo of Nyx’s boots on him, the bruises and the indentations he knows will be forming.

Beside him Nyx crouches, beautiful lips forming sweet words like _good boy_ , and _I’m so please_ d. Ignis’s pulse flutters and his treacherous cock twitches, threatening to tear the seam of his trousers. To think that the indignity of being trod on could get him so aroused.

Those gentle hands are back, though perhaps less gentle now. Ignis is malleable to the wordless commands, shifting his shoulders and hips when directed, as Nyx methodically disrobes him, tugging down his pants and briefs, unfastening his sock garters and peeling off one sock then the other. His stubble scratches against Ignis’s instep as Nyx kisses his toes, a gentle reminder that he’s still precious to him, no matter how he’s used.

Last, Nyx peels the dress shirt from Ignis’s pleasantly limp body, setting it aside with more care than the rest of his clothes, because he knows that later, when he surfaces from the happy place his brain has retreated to, Ignis will want to study each wrinkle and smudge.

“Mm, lots of souvenirs for you tomorrow, beautiful boy.” Nyx exhales, callused fingers tracing something across Ignis’s firm stomach. “I must have had a big supper, I didn’t think I was _that_ heavy. I can see the shape of my boots in you.”

Ignis can’t help the shiver that races through his body at the touch and at that promise. Tomorrow morning he will spend a long time studying the marks in the mirror, retracing the path his Master’s boots took on his lucky body.

Glacial blue eyes flick up to study Ignis’s face and Ignis remains docile, exactly as Nyx left him, rumpled and hopefully covered in bootprints, his features lax with contentment.

“Good,” Nyx murmurs more to himself than to Ignis. “Very good.”

With a soft grunt of exertion, Nyx pushes himself to his feet again and motions down to Ignis. “Heel,” he instructs. They have learned over time that Ignis prefers simple commands, one word if possible. It helps him to think less and act more instinctively. They have, previously, gone over a number of commands and the specifics of what Master wants from him, so that when the commands are issued, Ignis doesn’t need to analyze or over-think, he is free to simply obey.

At the sound of the familiar command falling from that delicious mouth, Ignis rolls to his side and then up onto his hands and knees. Heel means come with me, follow me, crawl and be quiet.

Ignis dimly registers the sweet ache in his legs and chest as he crawls in Nyx’s wake. It’s pleasant, like the burn of exertion after a good workout. Anyway, it’s a short trip, simply across the sitting room to Nyx’s favourite armchair, which the Glaive sinks into with exaggerated casualness, stretching his long legs with a groan while sinking back into the soft padding. Ignis draws himself into a kneel at Nyx’s feet, where he knows he’s meant to be unless told otherwise.

“You did such a good job letting me clean the bottoms of my boots on you,” Nyx purrs down at him. “It seems a shame to leave the tops so dirty.” He rocks an ankle from side to side, tilting and turning a boot so that the lamplight catches it, its reflection igniting in the glossy leather, highlighting the little smudges and flecks of dust marring it.

Ignis’s mouth waters greedily at the prospect of putting his mouth on those magnificent boots, can almost taste the rich leather on his tongue already.

“Speak,”  Nyx commands.otherwise Ignis will maintain his silence except for his safe words.

A giddy tremor wracks Ignis’s frame where he kneels, naked except for his glasses. This is wrong, dirty, and everything he can imagine wanting right now. Taking a deep breath, he bows his head and pleads.  “Please, Master, may I lick your boots?”

Above him heavy fabric rustles as Nyx settles himself more comfortably into his chair, and Ignis thinks that he might hear the delicate popping of buttons being undone.

“By all means, put that lovely mouth to work,” Nyx says.

“Thank you, Master,” Ignis murmurs. It’s difficult to engage in human speech after being so pleasantly reduced to an object, and it will be a sweet relief to make his mouth busy, useful, and unable to speak.

His Master could help him, could cross his legs to dangle a leather-clad morsel in front of Ignis’s eager mouth. But he doesn’t, leaving both feet firmly planted on the hardwood floor, awaiting Ignis’s ministrations.

The proper way to clean something, Ignis knows, is from the top down. There is, however, nothing proper about Ignis by this point in the festivities. Surrendering to his base urge to submit, to be low and small enough to be inconsequential, he bends at the waist, leaning towards those enticing boots, until he’s low enough to press a kiss to the toe of the left one.

“Fuck, you’re lovely,” Nyx groans above him as Ignis mouths a matching kiss to his right boot.

A contented hum vibrates in the back of Ignis’s throat as he applies himself to his task. The glossy leather is faintly musky and salty beneath his lips, the unique combination of the various places Nyx has tramped with these boots on, overlaid with the bitter tang of his brand of shoe polish.

It’s absolutely divine.

Ignis laves his tongue over the top of the first boot, painting a long, wet stripe into the leather from the rubber trim of the sole, across the dorsum and up to the straps below Nyx’s ankle. The flat of his tongue tingles, delighting in feel of the leather, warmed by Nyx’s body.

He smacks his lips appreciatively and slowly, meticulously, licks another strip up, and then another, and another, until the leather is slick and shining. He has to contort himself awkwardly, bruised chest pressed to the floor, in order to reach the side of Nyx’s boot, where his lips and tongue trace a path of worship towards the heel. He relishes the discomfort, though, the extra effort it takes him to do this task, to serve his Master. The effort only makes Ignis’s labours seem sweeter.

“Yes, you beautiful boy, you good boy,” Nyx rains praises upon his head as Ignis works, his clever tongue now tracing circles around the eyelets for the laces.  “Your clever mouth, your smart mouth, serving me. It’s so perfect.”

Ignis hums his fervent agreement before parting plush lips and taking part of Nyx’s bootlaces into his mouth, sucking on the cord, eager to show his devotion by how thorough he is, and how utterly unconcerned with his own dignity he is. All that matters is the taste and feel of leather and metal on his tongue, and how pleased his Master will be when he sees his immaculate boots.

Above his head, in that vague world above his eyeline where only the dominant can dwell, he hears a faint rustling again, the distinct whisper of flesh against flesh. His dominant must have freed his own erection and is rhythmically stroking himself to the sight of Ignis curled up on the floor, laying worship to his boots. Or perhaps he’s not even looking, but is only vaguely aware of the soft pressure of his tongue against the supple leather.

Steadfastly, Ignis scales the impressive height of Nyx’s boot, sucking his devotion into the laces with his lips, licking his way like a loyal pet up along the sides that encase his muscular calves, and kissing wordless expressions of submission into every other inch of leather. He even snakes his tongue out, the clever tip tracing the metal casings of the lace eyelets, polishing them to a high shine.

The straps, though. Shiva’s mercy, but they’re Ignis’s favourite.

He delights in the contrasting textures, the cool metal clasps, the harder, firmer leather of the strap. He nuzzles at them, nibbling ever so gently so as not to damage them.

He’s almost sad when his eager tongue crests the top of Nyx’s knee, and oh yes, now that he’s hunched over his Master’s lap, he can see the swollen length of his cock in hand, lazily being stroked, a callused thumb teasing precum against the slit. It makes his mouth water anew.

But Ignis knows his business, and right now it’s to show those gorgeous boots the admiration they deserve.

He licks and kisses his way across the top of Nyx’s boot, and then slowly, painfully slowly, he eases back, a demure upwards flash of a seafoam gaze wordlessly seeking Master’s approval of his work.

The hand smoothly working Nyx’s cock doesn’t slow, but the Glaive clears his throat and manages to almost sound like he’s not on the brink of orgasm. “Very nice, beautiful. Very nice, that’s perfect.” There’s a heart-stopping moment where Ignis wonders if he might be asked to put his willing mouth to other uses, but it’s instantly quashed when Nyx demands. “Now the other.”

Ignis can’t say that he minds.

“With pleasure, Master.” He leans in applying his lips and tongue to the leather of the second boot with as much enthusiasm as the first.

He works his way down this time, over the straps near the knees, down the laces and the long panels of leather that secure Nyx’s beautiful calf muscles. His mouth is beginning to go dry, but he doggedly continues his work, determined to do well, to earn the sweet praises Nyx so graciously bestows on him.

“Yes,” Nyx grunts softly and Ignis can hear him working his cock faster. “Just like that, get into the seams, the snaps, I want your gorgeous mouth everywhere.”

Ignis moans around Nyx's ankle strap and unabashedly dips his head down to lick desperate stripes into the dorsum of his boot, determined to see shining as well as the first

He barely manages a half dozen languid swipes of his tongue before Nyx hisses and nudges Ignis’s head away with a glossy leather-clad toe. “Fuck. Get your mouth up here before I make a mess all over my boots and you have to start all over.”

If Ignis were still capable of rational thought, of balancing risks and rewards, he might seriously think about which option he truly prefers. His mouth does hunger for Nyx’s cock more than anything, but the prospect of lapping Master’s come off of his boots is hardly an unappealing prospect, either.

Mercifully, he’s very much not capable of such thoughts, so fixated is he on his one and only objective of being pleasing and obedient. If Nyx wants to spend himself down ignis’s throat, then that is what he will get.

Ignis straightens on his knees. He swipes his tongue across the plush tiers of his lips before leaning over Nyx’s lap, mouth sweetly parted to welcome his cock.

“Fucking yes, gorgeous.” Nyx groans, impatient fingers tangling into Ignis’s already thoroughly mussed hair and dragging him down and over the length of his dick. The head of his cock brushes the back of Ignis’s throat, but before Ignis’s gag reflex can even think about kicking in, Nyx is spilling himself into his submissive, having teetered on the very brink of pleasure for the long minutes that Ignis had spent meticulously shining his boots with his mouth.

Gratefully Ignis swallows him down. Nyx’s come is a familiar musky tang, not quite sour but also not quite sweet, like the spices that are the trademark of Galahdian cuisine. In a way it’s not dissimilar to the taste of the man’s boots, and is thus a rather fitting dessert for a sub who has glutted himself at his Master’s feet all night, it really is a most complimentary flavour profile.

Nyx doesn’t untangle his fingers from Ignis’s hair, even after the last drops of his spend have been milked by Ignis’s hard-working tongue. He holds his submissive close, allowing his dick to go soft in his mouth.

“This is where you belong, beautiful. Right here, at my feet, with my dick in you. Doesn’t it feel good?” He strokes his fingers across Ignis’s temples, and he shudders happily, thrilled by every word and gesture. “You’ve pleased me so much tonight, been so good for me, my little boot licking, cock warming doormat. I think you’ve finally earned your reward.”

A tiny part of Ignis’s brain wants to protest that the entire evening has been a waking dream, and more than reward in itself. The pleasure of serving, and the freedom Nyx bestows on him by allowing him this time to simply be what he is, are more than Ignis could ever ask for or want.

Ignis knows better than to argue, though.

A booted toe, damp and glossy with spit, nudges between Ignis’s thighs, brushing the aching, swollen organ at their apex. Ignis had been so fixated on his service to Nyx that he’d wholly ignored the lust that had curled in his own belly, and the hot, aching need swelling his cock.

Nyx sees everything, though.

The sole of Nyx’s boot is perhaps not the ideal surface for Ignis to rut against, being hard and dry. But the ridged tread feel sinfully good, and there’s enough precome now leaking from Ignis’s cock that the rubber is soon slick. And Nyx knows just how to apply the right amount of pressure, briefly crossing that intangible line from pleasure and into pain before easing back again.

He moans, wanton and shameless, as he bucks his hips, pressing his aching shaft against Nyx's boot, thrilling at the way the textured sole teases him, a tactile pleasure like no other.

Ignis’s entire body pulses with the rhythm of Nyx’s boot rocking over his dick, pressing it into the flat planes of his stomach, the toe teasing at the weeping head, and the thick chunky heel tormenting his swollen balls in just the right way to turn Ignis into a writhing whimpering mess of a person.

“Let go, beautiful. Let go for me. You’ve earned it.” Nyx encourages, voice gruff in the wake of his own orgasm not long ago.

Ignis keens loudly, heedless of the fact that he’s shooting ropes of creamy spend over the pristine sole and toe of Nyx’s boot. It feels too good to stop or to care. All he can do is shudder, quaking with the force of the orgasm he’d hardly noticed building in himself all night. All the while Nyx croons down at him that he’s “A beautiful boy, so beautiful…”

When the white haze of euphoria passes Ignis slumps, panting, onto the floor, where the bare boards are blessedly cool against fever hot skin.

* * *

 

Ignis does, of course, have to clean up his mess. He’d put far too much effort into licking and being trampled by those boots to allow them to be packed away for the evening, sticky and stained with his release. Full of appreciation and still happily floating on a wave of endorphins, he licks his own salty release from the boot until it’s as shiny as the day it was made.

Afterward, Nyx remains comfortably sprawled in his chair, his long, powerful legs parted, leaving just enough room in-between for a content Ignis to curl up, his cheek on his Dominant’s thigh. Nyx has tucked himself back into his pants, but Ignis is still happily nude. He’s at Nyx’s feet, so he’s safe there and he’s not worried about getting dressed.

“You doin’ ok there, beautiful? Want another drink of water?” Nyx asks solicitously, gesturing at the bottles on the nearby table.

“Just this,” Ignis murmurs, more than content to languish at his feet.

It’s then that there’s a metallic rattling and jangling at the door, followed by the distinct sound of a key in the lock.

“Whoops. Lost track of time,” Nyx says sheepishly and Ignis huffs an amused laugh as Crowe walks in, pocketing her keys.

“You boys still not decent?” Crowe asks, a delicate brow arched.

“Sorry, babe, didn’t know it was that late.” Nyx apologizes. “My bad. You can spank me later.” He winks, and Ignis admires his cheek.

She huffs, blowing aside a long curl of a bang in the process. “Whatever, I don’t need an excuse for that, hotshot.” She shrugs, full lips curling up into a grin that shows a dangerous amount of teeth. Threatening, even.

She sweeps her warm gaze down, to where Ignis is still tucked between Nyx’s legs, contentedly having his hair pet and just listening to the other two speak. It’s so nice to just be quiet.

“I can come back later if you guys need more time to unwind.” This is her home, too, and Ignis is deeply grateful for her sensitivity to even offer to leave, to let them finish up their scene or come back down from their power exchange high, whatever they need.

It’s not necessary, though..

Ignis clears his throat, raw and raspy from disuse. “Don’t leave on my account. You’re always welcome.”

“What beautiful here said,” Nyx agrees. The more the merrier.”

While that’s not precisely what Ignis meant, the sentiment is still sound. He can feel the stirrings of something warm in his gut, the embers of his need to submit that will never quite go away, fanned into new life by Crowe’s arrival.

“Alright then!” Crowe flashes a shit-eating grin, one that easily rivals Nyx at his best. She eyes Nyx and Ignis up and down, drinking in their respective states, taking the measure of the evening;s play before she strides with purpose across the room, laying claim to the small couch.

Perching herself on the center cushion, she spreads her arms along the top of the couch, getting herself comfortable. With a wicked gleam in her eye she stares pointedly at the both of them and deliberately raises her own booted feet from the floor, holding them out straight.

“Now that’s settled, where the fuck is my favourite footstool?”

It’s a race, one that Ignis wins easily, smoothly inserting himself on his hands and knees beneath Crowe’s lovely feet. He straightens his back and feels the soothing weight of her legs settling on him, heavy but dispersed enough to be pleasant, even comforting.

“Thanks, Glasses.” She reaches down to ruffle Ignis hair affectionately, her long nails scratching calmingly along his scalp.

“My pleasure,” he demures.

Ignis can’t see the look that Crowe is giving Nyx, but he bloody well knows there’s a look. Her voice is husky, dripping with wicked intent as she calls. “Hey Nyx, those boots of yours are lookin’ mighty shiny. You sure do know how to take care of ‘em.”

“It’s in the handbook, Kingsglaive policy, section 24, section C, paragraph whatever. Boots must be shiny as a freshly-minted gil at all times.”

“Oh yeah?” She hums thoughtfully and Ignis can feel the shift of her weight as she crosses one booted ankle over the other, digging slightly into the small of Ignis’s back. “Damn, missed that part. Why don’t you be a gentleman, Ulric, and help a lady out with that?”

Ignis doesn’t bother to hide the broad smile overtaking his features as the two banter good-naturedly. They all know that this will end with Nyx on his knees, showing the same subservient devotion to Crowe’s boots that Ignis had shown to his.  And Ignis, for his part, is more than content to leave them to it. He’s happy to go back to being an object, one that is relieved of the burdens of thought, speech, and choice. There is only the weight of Crowe’s legs along his back, and the warmth of Nyx’s presence approaching them.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
